


Three missing scenes

by lopezuna



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28958085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lopezuna/pseuds/lopezuna
Summary: Three missing scenes that take place between Have His Carcase and Gaudy Night.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	1. Wilvercombe: the aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after the end of Have His Carcase.

Harriet returned to Town to face a storm of curiosity about her appearance on the front pages of the newspapers on the arm of Lord Peter Wimsey. While Wimsey's attentions to her over the past 18 months had not entirely escaped the notice of the more acute reader of the society pages, this latest incident was something one would have had to live under a rock not to be aware of. Neither the concerned inquiries of friends nor the acidic comments of certain literary aquaintances on her remarkable luck in attracting publicity did anything to improve her temper. It was borne in upon her that the whole episode had given her additional cause to be grateful to Wimsey, and for this, she could not forgive him. Moreover, the fickle interest of the more frivolous elements in Fleet Street once having been attracted to the subject, it seemed that they were unwilling to let go. Wimsey asked her to dine with him, and though the establishments he chose were as discreet as always, these appointments afterwards featured conspicuously in the morning papers. 

Feeling that if this were to go on much longer, she would be driven mad, Harriet met with her agent and her bank manager. She determined that if she were to live frugally, her finances would be sufficient to afford a year-long trip to the Continent with a friend. She made the arrangements necessary to shut up her flat, and sketched out an itinerary. All that remained to do was to wait until a date was set for the Wilvercombe trial to make the final purchase of tickets and hotel reservations. In the meantime, she settled down to work with energy on the Fountain Pen Mystery.

Harriet did not mention her European trip to Wimsey. She told herself that it was none of his business, and that he had no claim to know where she went or what she did - and in justice, she had to admit he had never asserted such a claim. But the thought that she was planning to disappear once again without telling him, this time for a prolonged period, made her feel curiously furtive. In consequence, she was more than usually bad-tempered on the occasions when they met, and let him know in no uncertain terms that if he thought their prolonged and frequent interactions at Wilvercombe had set a precedent for the future, he was bound to be disappointed. Wimsey responded with his usual imperturbable urbanity, leaving her with an unreasonable desire to hit him.

So when the summons to the Assizes at Wilvercombe arrived, Harriet was sufficiently preoccupied that she quite forgot to dwell on the fact that she would be attending a murder trial for the first time since her own unfortunate experience. 

The trip down was unremarkable. She had planned to tell Wimsey that she was perfectly fine taking the train, thank you very much. But when he telephoned to invite her to join him in the Daimler, it occurred to her that sharing a railway carriage with a crowd of press men was possibly an even less attractive prospect than a prolonged tete-a-tete with Lord Peter. In the event, Peter had himself seemed somewhat abstracted during the drive down, and what conversation there was during the journey kept strictly to general subjects. 

Consistent with her resolve to save as much as possible for her European trip, Harriet elected to stay in an inexpensive hotel. She soon realized that this decision had been unwise. The accommodations were dreary despite the time of year, and the damp atmosphere and a peculiar clanging noise in the pipes brought her straight back to her cell at Holloway. She tossed and turned for most of the night, and only fell into an unrefreshing sleep around dawn. When she went to dress in the morning, her spirits were not much improved by the discovery that her best silk stockings had developed a ladder. Harriet cursed herself roundly for not having thought to check before packing them. If one had to go through an unpleasant experience that was bound to remind one of a traumatic event, the least one could do was to make sure that one looked one's best while doing it. 

As it happened, the detective novelist in Harriet was sufficiently distracted by the arcane details of legal procedure that she quite forgot to think either about the state of her stockings, or about the resemblance between the Wilvercombe courtroom and the courtroom at the Old Bailey. Harriet Vane was called as the opening witness for the prosecution. Professional training took over, and she responded to the questions put to her in a steady voice, methodically describing the gruesome sight that had presented itself to her that afternoon on the Flat-Iron rock. 

"Miss Vane, please describe the body of Paul Alexis as it was when you found it."  
"The body was lying with the knees drawn up ... Both hands and both arms as well as the front part of the body were saturated with blood ... When I shifted the body, the blood flowed freely and copiously from the severed vessels ... When I lifted the corpse, the blood gushed out ... It was quite liquid and ran freely"

In the anteroom afterwards, she tried to light a cigarette, but her hands shook so, that she had to give it up, and accept the lighted cigarette that Peter silently passed to her. Perhaps the reminder of the blood everywhere and the sight of Paul Alexis' throat cut had got to her after all. 

On the second day of the trial, Lord Peter testified to his part in unmasking Mr Bright with a smooth noncholance that was thrilling to the ladies in the public gallery. He conferred afterwards with counsel for the prosecution and Superintendent Glaisher, and reported back in ebullient spirits that they were cautiously optimistic despite the outlandishness of the case being laid before the jury. That evening, Harriet refused his invitation to dine. She was half-annoyed that Peter had not attempted to dissuade her from her determination to see the thing through to the bitter end. She had been ready to reply tartly that she had a professional interest in observing the details of legal procedure, that he was not her keeper, and that if he wanted to offer a woman his protection in future, he could damn well choose someone else. Feeling rather flat, she decided she could not cope with his high spirits, and retired with the excuse of having work to do.

The next day the trial concluded. After the summing up, Lord Peter adroitly bypassed both the Press and Mrs Weldon, and and led Harriet to await the verdict in the back room of a pub off a side street. She had not been looking forward to dealing with the Press, but rather resented the fact that her acquiesence in this plan had been taken for granted. The hard and lumpy mattress of her cheap hotel and three days cooped up in a stale atmosphere had made her restless as well as irritable. She was not thinking about the last time she had waited for a verdict in a murder trial. She just wanted the thing to be done, to be sure that one way or another she would not have to testify again, and finally to be off to Europe where she hoped neither importunate suitors nor corpses with the impertinence to have had their throats slit would bother her.

Lord Peter ordered a half-pint of beer, and Harriet a pot of tea. As she sat lighting cigarette after cigarette, stubbing one out half-smoked, then lighting another, she kept her face studiously averted from that of her companion. His mood was somewhat darker than on the previous day, and she could feel his gaze heavy upon her. This only annoyed her further. If only he wouldn't always be so preternaturally calm. She suddenly wanted some proof that he was actually human, that somewhere behind the suave exterior lurked a living, breathing man who could feel disgust, humiliation, loneliness, despair. He had said that she could hurt him more than he could her - well if this were true she wanted to see it.

"You don't have to look after me, you know" she said, knowing there was no good way for him to respond. But he refused to rise to the bait this time. Instead, he took a greasy pack of cards from his coat pocket. 

"I leave it to you to decide the game"  
"Oh, I think Spite and Malice would be quite appropriate, don't you?"  
He remained unmoved.  
"In that case, I shall see if the establishment can provide us with a second deck."

The second deck was soon procured, and competitive instinct taking over, the conversational atmosphere lightened. Harriet had whiled away many an idle hour during her school days playing Spite and Malice. Luck was also on her side, and she inflicted a gratifyingly thorough defeat on her opponent.

As Peter was lamenting his misfortunes, Inspector Umpelty arrived to report a verdict of Guilty for all of the defendants. They both congratulated him heartily, and hands were shaken hands all around.

"I won't say as what I was expecting things to turn out so well. There were a few sticky moments there. But I'm right glad now that the jury believed it."  
"Yes, blood will have blood," replied Peter.  
"That was some very pretty medical evidence," added Harriet. "Your expert witness was a most convincing fellow."  
"Why, thank you, Miss," replied the Inspector. After a pause, he added somewhat tentatively, "I do hope that you and the gentleman won't take a dislike to Wilvercombe as a result of this. The Superintentent and I will always have a welcome for you at least"

This remark was followed by a somewhat uncomfortable pause. The Inspector took his leave, and Harriet turned to Peter.

"So that is that."  
"Yes, that is that. We'll start for Town right away, if you don't mind. I have some business I'd rather like to attend to tomorrow." 

He could already feel the clutch on his entrails, knowing the fate of Weldon and the Morecambes, done by his hand. He hoped that he would manage to get to Town before the knot of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach turned to violent shivering.

They reached Doughty Street some time after 10 o'clock. As the car drew up beside her flat, Harriet took a deep breath.  
"Peter, I've decided to go away. I'm leaving on Monday. I don't know when I will be back. Please don't write."

He replied with unexpected meekness, staring out ahead with his hands still on the wheel.  
"I see. Very well. Vade in Pace. If you ever want me, you will find the Old Firm at the usual stand."

He handed her out of the car, opened the front door for her, lifted his hat, and was gone.


	2. An unwanted Christmas present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the first year of their acquaintance Lord Peter ventured to send Harriet a Christmas present (a very nice vase*). This has repercussions.
> 
> * As written by Nineveh_uk.

He picked up the box, the same box Bunter had wrapped the vase in. It rattled with a sharp sound of broken glass. He hoped it was because the vase had broken in the post. He considered opening it, but decided against, and pushed it firmly to the back of a drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.

The following year, as Christmas approached with no news of Harriet, he remembered the package. He picked a time when Bunter was safely out of the house on an errand, and retrieved it from the drawer and opened it. With some relief, he noted that at least the vase did not seem to have been smashed against a wall. There was a note inside. He unfolded it gingerly. "Dear Lord Peter..." 

So this was how she felt. Humiliated by his attentions. He had known it for some time, but had been afraid to admit it to himself. Now he could not pretend any more. He sat looking at the broken shards of vase, and wondered bleakly whether he had alienated her beyond all hope of retrieval. He winced as he thought back to their first meeting. She, so grave and dignified, despite the shadow of the gallows. He the selfish brute who thought not of her, but only of his own overmastering desires. He could hear her saying wearily, "I'll live with you if you like, but I won't marry you," and he acknowledged for the first time the note of defeat in her voice. In the end, was he no better than Philip Boyes, who had badgered her to death, and then, in her words, "made a fool" of her? 

He cursed once again the dirty trick of fate, which had tantalizingly shown him the woman of his dreams, but made it impossible for him to pursue her as he would any other woman. He did not doubt his own attractiveness, to women in general, and to Harriet in particular. Indeed, on occasion, she had appeared to his experienced eye to be susceptible. But stubbornly, perhaps perversely, he refused to consider that approach. If he had learned anything in the two years he had known Harriet, it was that her prickly integrity was central to his desire. He wanted all of her, or nothing, even if nothing seemed increasingly likely to be what he would get. 

Where was she now? He reflected that sales must be good, to sustain her prolonged absence from England. Would he call her when she returned? He thought, on balance, that he would. If he were to be honest, he did not think he could stop himself. But things would be different. Enough of humiliation. Enough of discreet little restaurants and obscure roadside inns. He was not ashamed to be seen with her; he would not act as if he were ashamed. But he would give her space. Thinking with distaste of his burst of free speech in Wilvercombe, he vowed that there would be no more displays of emotion. 

He refolded the note, putting it back in the drawer with the newspaper cuttings. The broken remains of the vase and the crushed package he swept into the wastepaper basket. Bunter would clean it up later, and think.... God knows what.


	3. Ferrara’s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ferrara’s episode from Peter’s point of view.

Monday began, a day pretty much like any other. Lord Peter arose, bathed, shaved, dressed, and sat down to a leisurely breakfast with the company of the Times. He read with interest about the Canadian reception of Mr Baldwin's speech on the Ottawa Conference. He noted with surprise Mr MacDonald's visit to Geneva. He was intrigued by the perplexities facing US President Hoover, who, despite espousing the rhetoric of "sturdy individualism," was by all accounts overseeing an unprecedented increase in State Capitalism. Presently, he poured himself a second cup of Bunter's excellent coffee, and uncharacteristically for him, turned to a desultory scan of the society pages. There, he read that one Harriet Vane, "the well-known detective authoress," had been seen at a literary luncheon-party. His normally well-regulated heart skipped a beat. He put down his coffee cup as the print swam beneath his eyes. 

So. So she had returned to England. He suppressed a momentary impulse to disappointment that she had not seen fit to let him know of her return. He firmly reminded himself of her bitter note, lying now in the drawer of press cuttings as a reproach to his previous overconfidence. During the year or so that Harriet Vane had been gone, Lord Peter, usually so sure of his own abilities, had had the leisure to reflect that whatever he had been doing to woo her, it was not working. After suffering her suitor to come to her aid a second time at Wilvercombe, far from falling into his arms, the lady had taken flight. The resulting re-evaluation of his strategy (or was it tactics?) had not been an entirely pleasant exercise for his lordship. He had been forced to admit that his own selfish needs, rather than Miss Vane's best interests, had often been uppermost in his heart. But he emerged from this period of painful introspection still quietly determined to win the lady, if at the same time resolved to make amends for the past.

Once he had regained his equilibrium somewhat, Lord Peter's next thought was to reach for the telephone. Instrument in hand, he forced himself to pause. Was this really such a good idea? Did it not smack somewhat of desperation to make calls to one's lady-friends over breakfast? No matter. If he left it until later, she might have gone out for the day. 

After some delay, he ran her down at a new telephone number. He was all of a sudden ridiculously nervous.   
"Miss Harriet Vane?... Is that you, Harriet? I saw you were back. Will you dine with me one evening?"  
There was a pause before she replied, and he was horribly afraid that she would drop a cutting remark before slamming down the receiver.  
"Oh, thank you, Peter. But I don't know whether..."  
Her voiced trailed off uncertainly, and he was emboldened.  
"What? Every night booked from now till the coming of the Coqcigrues?"  
"Of course not," she replied, rather shortly.  
"Then say when."  
"I'm free tonight."  
"Admirable," he said, recalling quickly that he had a previous engagement, but that it could easily be dispensed with. "So am I. We will taste the sweets of freedom." He stalled for time, as he thought about where he should take her.   
"By the way, you have changed your telephone number."  
"Yes; I've got a new flat."  
It had to be somewhere suitable - he was determined to show her that he was not ashamed to be seen with her, yet he did not wish her to be burdened by forced introductions to his acquaintance. Ferrara's would do. Fashionable, but unlikely to be frequented by his sister-in-law.  
"Shall I call for you? Or will you meet me at Ferrara's at 7 o'clock?"  
"At Ferrara's?" He could hear the hesitation in her voice, so he replied quickly.  
"Seven o'clock if that's not too early. Then we can go on to a show if you care about it. Till this evening then. Thank you."  
So that was that. His opening gambit was laid.

Harriet arrived at the restaurant promptly at 7 o'clock. As she appeared behind the plate-glass door, Lord Peter felt a shiver make its way slowly down his spine. What was it about this woman that affected him more deeply than any woman had ever affected him before? At any rate, her prolonged absence had not dimmed the attraction in the slightest. While making a formal greeting, he tried to consider her objectively. She looked well: healthy; relaxed. If he had not known that she was unaccustomed to dining in the West End, he would not have guessed it. He reflected that it was only the second or third time he had seen her in evening dress, and observed with approval that she had taken advantage of her travels to make the acquaintance of a Parisian tailor.

Harriet's journeyings in Europe provided plenty of fodder for animated conversation during dinner. She was drily entertaining on the subject of her experiences in Germany, and expanded amusingly upon several unprintable details of an anecdote he remembered from one of her travel articles. By asking a few judicious questions, Wimsey was able to sit back and leave her to do most of the talking. This allowed him to observe her more closely. The acquisition of wealth and foreign travel had obviously given her confidence. He reflected that outside of England, she was a successful Englishwoman with money, with no whiff of scandal about her. He tried not to let his mind wander off on thoughts of Victorian gentlemen frequenting obscure Continental watering-places with their impossible wives.

With the evening going so well, when there was a lull in the flow of talk at at the pudding stage, he contrived to keep the conversation on general topics rather than risk a row by raising more personal subjects. For his own entertainment, he did this by taking a deliberately perverse position on the prospects for the Ottawa Conference. Harriet rose to the bait with her usual combativeness. As he watched her animated face and sparkling eyes, he thought how he had missed the challenge of arguing with her over the past year. Even on her most bad-tempered days, with tears hovering just around the corner, she had always retained the ability to stick stubbornly to the point. Indeed, provoking an argument had often been his last resort to stop the tears from flowing, because Harriet in tears could only mean that an outing would end in one of two ways, neither of them good.

This pleasant interlude was briefly interrupted when, as they stood up to leave the restaurant, Wimsey noticed a middle-aged woman with hard eyes look sharply at him. He recognized Amaranth Sylvester-Quicke. A sudden sinking feeling reminded him that he was conducting this affair in the public eye, and that the public eye was inclined to take a dim view of Harriet.

Somewhat to his surprise, Harriet had agreed to the theatre. Once seated, he was acutely conscious of her presence beside him. He could hear the silk of her dress rustle and smell her perfume as she shifted position. He paid but little attention to the play, trying to stop himself from thinking about how close she was sitting, and pondering hard what his next move should be. So far, the evening had been a success. He sensed that she had appreciated his effort at formal politeness, and had enjoyed the opportunity to describe her adventures to a willing ear. But things could not go on without some effort to clear the air. After admitting to himself that he had spent the evening forestalling her attempts to do so, he decided he should take the initiative.

He broached the difficult topic in the taxi, in a manner he hoped would be unlikely to give offence.  
"I take it, Harriet, that you have no new answer to give me?"   
She was quick to answer.  
"No, Peter. I'm sorry, but I can't say anything else."  
As expected. Polite and impersonal. But he would still let her know that he was not ready to give up, with a touch of humour to leaven his insistence.  
"Old habits die hard. I will not promise to reform altogether. I shall, with your permission, continue to propose to you, at decently regulated intervals -- as a birthday treat, and on Guy Fawkes Day and on the Anniversary of the King's Accession. But consider it, if you will, as a pure formality. You need not pay the smallest attention to it."  
"Peter, it's foolish to go on like this."  
Ah, how could he have forgotten!  
"And of course, on the Feast of All Fools."  
She remonstrated gently with him.  
"It would be better to forget all about it -- I hoped you had."  
He rebuffed her, equally gently.  
"I have the most ill-regulated memory. It does those things which it ought not to do and leaves undone the things it ought to have done. But it has not yet gone on strike altogether."  
He handed her out of the taxi, opened the front door, and left.

Back in his flat, Lord Peter sat beside the fire in reflective mood. All in all, the evening had been a moderate success. He did not dwell on the fact that Harriet had rejected him, again. That was only to be expected. He felt that he had managed to avoid any serious missteps in his effort to make a fresh start, and that was really the most he had the right to expect. 

He marveled once again at Harriet's resilience and at her appetite for life. Hard to believe that a few short years ago, she had been facing an ignominious death, and that since, she had had to fight hard for survival in a cruel world. But then, he had long ago realized that it was her strength he wanted her for, not her weakness. She was strong precisely where he was weak. He tried to tamp down the shame he felt for his past behaviour, for tormenting this woman, whom he loved, to the point that she offered to live with him but not marry him. He loved her, but could not admit his shame to her, because by doing so, he would surely lose her forever. 

Was there still hope? Hard to say. There had been a moment or two, a hint of tenderness when his fingers had brushed hers as he placed her cloak on her shoulders. His hand flexed briefly at the memory. But perhaps he was fooling himself. It was getting late in any case. He sighed, emptied his glass, switched off the lights, and went to bed.


End file.
